Treasurer takes A trip.

Charles Wrexell Allen, of the miles Standish
bicycle company, gets off with 100,000 dollars.

Detectives baffled.

The absconder A back bay social Leader.

Half way down the column was a picture of Mr. Allen, a cut made from a photograph, and, allowing for the crudities of newspaper reproduction, it was a striking likeness of the Celebrity.  Underneath was a short description.  Mr. Allen was five feet eleven (the Celebrity’s height), had a straight nose, square chin, dark hair and eyes, broad shoulders, was dressed elaborately; in brief, tallied in every particular with the Celebrity with the exception of the slight scar which Allen was thought to have on his forehead.

The situation and all its ludicrous possibilities came over me with a jump.  It was too good to be true.  Had Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen arrived at Asquith and created a sensation with the man who stole his name I should have been amply satisfied.  But that Mr. Allen had been obliging enough to abscond with a large sum of money was beyond dreaming!

I glanced at the rest of it:  a history of the well-established company followed, with all that Mr. Allen had done for it.  The picture, by the way, had been obtained from the St. Paul agent of the bicycle.  After doing due credit to the treasurer’s abilities as a hustler there followed a summary of his character, hitherto without reproach; but his tastes were expensive ones.  Mr. Allen’s tendency to extravagance had been noticed by the members of the Miles Standish Company, and some of the older directors had on occasions remonstrated with him.  But he had been too valuable a man to let go, and it seems as treasurer he was trusted implicitly.  He was said to have more clothes than any man in Boston.

I am used to thinking quickly, and by the time I had read this I had an idea.

“What in hell do you make of that, Crocker?” cried my client, eyeing me closely and repeating the question again and again, as was his wont when agitated.

“It is certainly plain enough,” I replied, “but I should like to talk to you before you decide to hand him over to the authorities.”

I thought I knew Mr. Cooke, and I was not mistaken.

“Authorities!” he roared.  “Damn the authorities!  There’s my yacht, and there’s the Canadian border.”  And he pointed to the north.

The others were pressing around us by this time, and had caught the significant words which Mr. Cooke had uttered.  I imagine that if my client had stopped to think twice, which of course is a preposterous condition, he would have confided his discovery only to Farrar and to me.  It was now out of the question to keep it from the rest of the party, and Mr. Trevor got the headlines over my shoulder.  I handed him the sheet.